by Alex Hammond
‘What’s the other case?’
‘Kid who might or might not have bullied another one into committing suicide. Father is a judge.’
Miller shifted his hands under the cat and held up an open palm. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t ask for names.’
‘It’s Walsh. His son.’
‘Huh. Walsh always seemed like one of the better ones. But then most of them are total lunatics so that’s not saying much.’
‘The kid is messed up – collects violent photos, manipulates his friends, obsessed with terrorism.’
Miller’s eyes widened. ‘Not making bombs?’
Will shook his head. ‘No, nothing like that. He’s almost the inverse of your standard teenager. Still self-involved, but the world doesn’t revolve around him. Saxon is more outward-looking, his concerns global, existential. It’s strange. It’s as though he’s studying the war on terror. Trying to figure it all out, piece it together. He buys ex-military surplus stuff online.’
Military surplus.
‘Shit.’
Will tapped on his keyboard, kicking the laptop out of sleep mode.
‘What is it?’ Miller asked.
‘It’s those guys that attacked me. The ones who tracked you to Queensland.’ He opened a web browser.
‘What about them?’
‘They were wearing a specific kind of shoe.’ Will typed in the words Zamberlan and military into the search bar.
‘What about their shoes?’
‘Just a sec.’
The results page:
Military uniform – footwear and boots.
Modern military footwear.
For sale – Zamberlan military boots.
Tactical Zamberlan boots – Special Forces.
Will’s face felt cold. His hands started to shudder on the keyboard.
‘Will?’
‘They’re military. Or ex-military.’
Miller let the cat drop out of his hands and rushed around to Will’s side of the desk.
‘You’re serious?’
‘I think so. Yes.’ He turned back to the laptop. ‘Let me search “Australian special forces Zamberlan”.’
‘Search “SOCOM”,’ Miller said. ‘Special Operations Command. They consolidated all the special forces units a while back. Like the Americans.’
‘How the hell do you know that?’
Miller blinked. ‘From the only real relationship I’ve ever had. She worked for the UN back in 2003, a post-9/11 advisory group. It’s a long story and a long time ago. Anyway, search “SOCOM equipment Zamberlan”.’
Will typed the words. The top hit was a Defence Force report. Miller leant in closer as Will ran a search through the PDF.
The extreme cold weather combat boot is the Zamberlan ‘Civetta’.
‘Chris, they’re fucking professionals.’
‘It explains a lot.’
‘Are you saying that Michael Eldon, his connection in the cops, or someone he knows has access to ex-special forces, what – thugs? Mercenaries?’
‘Something like that,’ Miller said, walking back around the desk and pacing along the short area of clear floor space. ‘Think about it. You have money, so why not go to the best? These guys are used to doing things under the radar. They’re pros. They don’t leak to the press. They stay quiet and they know how to hide. It’s fucked up, but it’s smart.’
Will raised himself slowly out of the chair. Standing was a challenge but once he was up, there was a brief respite, the blood flowing to his aching abdomen. ‘You still have those maps?’
‘They’re next door. Why?’
‘Can you grab them? I’ll make room on my desk.’
Miller hurried into his office and returned moments later with the maps.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked, as he loosened his tie.
‘You said that Mark spoke about The Covenant at the same time he was talking about his family arriving on the First Fleet.’
‘He did.’
‘What if that wasn’t some random boast, but a connected idea?’
‘Where are you going with this?’
‘I think we’ve been looking at it all wrong. Just like I was with the Zamberlan connection.’
Miller spread out the map dated 1793.
Will braced himself before bending down to peer at it, the buzz of the paperchase helping him to overcome the pain. He traced along the names on the map. There were two dozen of them, mostly English with a scattering of Scots, no doubt signifying rural origins and failed mercantile families.
Will motioned for the second map and Miller laid the 1805 freeholds in front of him.
He scanned the properties again.
‘There are duplicates. The same names are coming up again.’
‘Sure,’ Miller replied. ‘I wrote all those names in.’
‘But it’s a pattern. We keep seeing the same series of names – Frazer, Godwin and Stanhope . . . That’s significant. These families have much larger properties twelve years after the first map. You still have that book on the early history of Sydney?’
‘Somewhere.’
‘Can you grab it?’
Miller left again and Will scanned over the landholdings, flicking his eyes between the maps. He marked the property boundaries with a green highlighter.
‘Got another name,’ he said as Miller returned. ‘Hawk. Hawk starts with the smallest freehold and by 1805 has as much land as the other four combined. Here, look.’
‘Huh.’ Miller examined the map as he handed the book to Will.
Will flicked through to its index and then on to its appendices.
‘They’re here,’ Will said, using the highlighter to mark up the book.
‘What?’
‘They were marines on the first fleet.’
Will ran his finger down the faded ivory page along a list of names, four of them underscored in green:
Frazer, J. – Lt. QM.
Hawk, E. – Corp.
Godwin, W. – Corp.
Stanhope, T. – Sgt.
‘Soldiers,’ said Miller.
‘More than that. Men with power in a colony of convicts. It says here that these four all transferred to the New South Wales Corps when the ships that made up the fleet were returned to England.
‘When was the Rum Rebellion?’ Miller asked.
Will paged to a timeline at the front of the book. ‘It was 1808.’
‘The only military coup in the history of Australia and these four men came away with larger freeholds.’
Miller was shifting from one foot to the other. ‘What are we saying here? That these families all track their way through to, what, now?’
‘Perhaps. I have no idea where this leads.’
‘We should see where it goes. Could one of these families have a connection to Eldon?’
Undoubtedly. But Will needed Miller’s focus on getting himself out of trouble – the firm, their livelihoods demanded it.
Will shook his head. ‘It’s a distraction, Chris. I agree it’s interesting, but what will it do for us right now? It won’t help with your case. It won’t pay the bills, and it won’t make my professional hearing vanish. You’ve got briefs piling up, we’re spread too thin.’
‘We’ve got Haideh.’
‘And you know she’d do it in a second. But her attention is better spent keeping us afloat with the other clients.’
Miller mirrored Will, crossing his arms, motionless now. He looked at the blocked-out windows.
‘You’re right. We need to get ourselves out of this hole first.’
‘Promise me you’ll stop looking into these guys. For the moment. At least until we get you out of this mess – if we get you out of this mess.’
‘Sure. For the moment, sure.’ Miller pulled open the door to reception. ‘I’m going to get a coffee. You want one?’
Will shook his head. ‘No, thanks.’
Will walked over to the windows and started to unfasten the butcher’s paper.
Miller reappeared through the doorway frowning, his hand on his chin. ‘And what are you going to do about those guys who attacked you? They’re a distraction too, when it comes down to it.’
‘You’re right, Chris. I’ll stay away from them.’
Miller paused, looking over him, searching out some unseen intent.
‘They’ll keep,’ Will said. ‘And your 200-year-old mystery can definitely keep.’
Miller opened his mouth as if to say something but, thinking better of it, turned and left the office.
As Will rolled up the pages he watched Miller on the street below. He jogged over the road and started up the street for the hole-in-the-wall cafe he liked.
Will took out his phone and selected a number. It went straight to voicemail.
‘It’s Will Harris. I have some information on the men who attacked me. They’re ex-military. There’s a possibility they’re tied to a secret group of public officials engaged in illegal activity. This thing goes deep but if we put our heads together we can expose them. Call me back.’
THIRTY-ONE
Teresa rolled across the bed and picked her jeans up from the floor. Will leant against the upholstered headboard. He watched as the light from a streetlamp fell through the vertical blinds, throwing orange and black stripes over her naked body.
‘You have a cat?’ she asked, muffled by the side of the bed.
‘Yes. How did you —’
She rolled back over, holding a toy mouse in her hand.
‘That’s Toby’s,’ Will said. ‘He’s a tortoiseshell.’
‘A male tortoiseshell?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a rare cat, my friend.’
‘How rare?’
‘Very. Where is he?’
‘He lives at the office now. It seemed the fairest thing to do. I’m there more than I am here. That way he gets to spend quality time with me in his dotage.’
‘So you’ve had him a long time?’ she asked, dropping the toy back onto the floor.
‘Not so long. I inherited him . . . sort of. It’s complicated.’
‘Oh. Complicated.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to drag you down some rabbit hole of recriminations and regrets.’
Teresa held a small cigar case, and a Zippo in her other hand; the case was made from crocodile skin, the Zippo old and tarnished. She opened the case and held up a joint.
‘Sure,’ Will said.
Teresa lit the twisted tip of the precisely rolled paper and gently dragged on it. She held the smoke in her lungs before letting it slowly roll out of her mouth, while simultaneously drawing some back into her nostrils.
‘You’ve done this before, then?’ Will smiled.
She winked. ‘Just a few times.’
Teresa held out the joint and Will took it by its cardboard filter. She dangled her left leg off the bed while holding her right knee against her breast.
‘You can share your past with me if you want. I don’t mind, Will. We can have adult conversation without it being a marriage proposal. Pillow talk is not verboten.’
Will drew the smoke into his lungs, the musky, sweet smell flooding his nostrils.
Twice now. Two nights together. No longer a one-night stand. Somehow this seemed important, meaningful. She obviously liked him more than she was letting on: the phone call, the late-night visit. He was glad when she rang, glad for the respite, for the intimacy. She had a surprising familiarity when they had sex; ‘making love’ would have been the right phrase. It was warm, reassuring, gratifying. But he didn’t dare risk delving any further. He kept the door to thoughts on their future firmly shut.
‘It’s fine,’ he said as he exhaled. ‘I don’t feel a great urge to talk. What about you?’
‘Me?’
‘Any fucked-up shit from your past?’
‘I’m ridiculously boring, Will. Parents still married, happily-ish. Come from a lot of money, so hardship was never my thing.’
‘How much money are we talking?’
‘A lot more than you,’ she said, winking. ‘You would have heard of my father, Jack Brennan.’
‘The racing guy?’
‘The one and only. I grew up around horses. Rode as soon as I could walk. Well, ponies anyway. Training horses, winning races, making money – that’s my family’s thing.’
‘How does he feel about his little girl being a public servant, putting away crims?’
She shoved him with her foot.
‘He doesn’t think of me as his “little girl”. But yes, you’re right. Well done. It was contentious. Not enough to be salacious but obviously a lot of his friends don’t like what I do. But he’s clean.’
Will took another puff on the joint and handed it back.
‘They vetted him?’
‘Yes. Some serious digging around before I was offered my job. Everyone would have been a lot happier if I was in defence like you. But fuck it, I had a calling.’
‘A calling?’
‘I don’t need to tell you how it is. You know the game – defence is fine, admirable even, when it’s all naive kids boosting cars, or drug addicts, or crimes of opportunity. But when you get to rape and murder and brutal assaults, then you want to be on the other side, taking the fuckers off the street. That’s why I wanted to be a barrister, why I do indictable offences.’
‘I respect that. I’m not some hard case.’
‘I know that. You believe in the principle of a fair trial, for the sake of keeping the system honest.’
‘Did I say that?
‘Once. Yep.’
‘Jesus. You must think I’m pretty lame.’
She shook her head and smiled. ‘Yeah, Will, that’s why I’m here in your bed. Because I think you’re lame.’
Teresa placed the joint in the side of her mouth and pulled herself forwards onto Will’s lap. She inhaled and leant in towards him, pushing his lips open with her finger. As she slowly exhaled she blew the smoke into his mouth, kissing him, grinding against him.
Will placed his hands on her back, his fingers pressing into her shoulderblades. They were nose to nose, her green eyes staring into his own.
A flashing light from the bedside table chipped away at their warm place. Will tried to put it out of his mind, but the buzzing persisted.
‘Your phone,’ Teresa said, pressing her forehead against his chest.
Will looked over at the name on the screen. ‘Shit. I have to take this. I’m sorry.’
Teresa slid to one side as Will reached for the phone. He pulled himself up onto his feet.
‘It’s fine. Just make it up to me when you’re done,’ she said, licking a fingertip and dabbing it against the joint.
Leaving the bedroom, he answered. ‘Petra de Marco.’
‘Will Harris.’ She paused. He could hear the rattle of a tram as it passed her. ‘So I got your message. I don’t know what to say.’
‘Say, “Thanks, Will. Thanks for calling to tell me that I was right all along. There are corrupt dealings and illegal favours going on within Melbourne’s justice system.” And then say, “I’m sorry I accused you of being part of it.”’
‘I can leave this conversation at any time. You might want to drop the sass.’
‘It’s not easy for me to do this. To have this conversation with you.’
‘But you need my help.’
‘I do, but it will be worth your while.’
‘All I have is your phone message. It could be total crap.’
‘And yet here you are. Talking to me.’
‘I am.’
On the other end he could hear her breathing, and beyond that the sound of waves on a shore. Whether it was static on the line or her proximity to a beach, he couldn’t be certain.
Will opened a window and drew the night air into his lungs.
‘I don’t know why I was so abrasive just now. I really do want to make peace. I want you to help me with this thing. Find out who these guys are.’
‘I’m mature enough to move beyond our differences. What do I get in return?’
‘If done right, this could be Walkley Award–worthy stuff – entrenched corruption, abuse of privilege, hired goons. I can’t quite link him yet, but we believe Michael Eldon has something to do with it.’
‘Eldon? That would be big. Sounds too good to be true.’
Will looked down onto the cloistered courtyard. The lights in the stairwell and small garden beds were coming on.
‘It does, doesn’t it? But I can walk you through it. Help you connect it together. I have people I can call on. Academics. Witnesses. We can verify it. But if we get traction, if you end up with a story, you can’t disclose who the sources are. Myself included.’
‘If what you’re telling me is true, I’ll need proof. I can’t just slander people.’
‘Agreed.’
Will heard the clang of the security gate from the courtyard. He turned back to the open window. One of his neighbours, the elderly piano teacher, had arrived home. Under one arm he carried a valise, and with the other he held a plastic shopping bag stuffed with groceries.
What was his name again? Terrana? Turiano?
He shook his head. His mind was slipping away from him. The marijuana was kicking in. He needed to hurry the conversation along.
‘So where do we start?’ De Marco asked.
‘I’ll pull all the relevant information together for you over the next week or so. Then you can make the call on whether you want to move forwards with it.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘I’d like you to look into these guys who attacked me. I’ll put it all in an email first thing tomorrow. But I believe they’re ex- or currently special forces. Two of them.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘I can’t. But their shoes were Zamberlan Civettas – they’re used in extreme cold weather environments by the Australian Defence Force. Extreme cold weather like Afghanistan.’
‘What else?’
‘They knew how to fight, how to drive. They hit us and got out of there like professionals.’
‘Okay . . .’
‘One last thing. This wasn’t reported, so I’m trusting you with it. The woman with me, Eva Mercuri, was mutilated on both cheeks with a knife.’